Damnatio Memoriae
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Senior (55+)Accents
British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
damn Nazi. Oh Memoria, Written by Charles Higginson and read by Kevin Martin. Scrape, scrape, tap scraped tap A heavy, hand etched chalk into the wall beneath the columns of the National Gallery. Large, bold capital letters as yet indecipherable, obscured by the dense shadow of their hooded author. Scrape tap, scrape, scrape tap placards rent the cloud scape, swatches of environmentalist green and communist red, bright rainbow banners and black anti fascist flags. Bedsheets spray painted with grievances and slogans beat violently as they wrestled the wind alongside their cardboard piers, spreading a miasma of Vape juice, cheap perfume and purple flare smoke across Trafalgar Square. Damn Nazi! Oh Memoria, the hooded figure dissolved into the crowd. It was late afternoon, and the ghouls in charcoal suits would soon begin their commute home through the chaos, weaving in between activists, supporters, students, police officers, pickpockets and crazies, Children left to their own devices chased new best friends through the shape shifting labyrinth of legs, or threaten pigeons with stomps and faints Above them, Faces appeared gaunt and cadaverous in the uh, plight of smartphones, as if the grown ups were about to narrate a ghost story chance upon chance upon chance. Trafalgar Square spoke in false tongues. The fluorescent riders of the mounted branch tried to steady their spooked horses while shouting at flanked counter protesters to get back from Whitehall. A proliferation of police sirens drone like an organ fugue, heralding more protesters. What did they want? Equity. And they wanted it. Now, behind the wrought iron gates of the Sainsbury Wing, a disgraced curator weathered incantations of shame on you with arms akimbo. In the centre of the square, however, people had hushed one another into silence. Beneath the remains of Nelson's column, a girl with candy floss, blue hair and thick rimmed spectacles was about to speak. Good afternoon, everyone. I'd like to start by addressing the families and communities around the world that have spent so long awaiting justice and accountability. I am so sorry for everything you have been through. I know that tonight can't take away your pain. Some justice is not equal justice, but we're on the right path. We talk about art like it is a mirror to society, but it is a mirror in which the marginalised cannot see themselves. The West has a long history of discrimination, and the Western canon shows how deeply that discrimination is rooted in our structures. Discrimination has no place in the utopia. Toxic art must not be allowed to exist. Burn it down. One heckle and the crowd broke into a fit of parallel Alia. She resumed in a louder voice. We should not lose focus as we celebrate. Complacency with today's victory could mean tomorrow's defeat. Our collective fervour must not wane as we dismantle and reform the system. For too long, privileged artists have dominated our museums with their perspective. For too long, we have consumed their art and rewarded them with great wealth and prestige that stops today. This morning I met with the board of trustees, and the Safe Space and Reparations Agreement was signed. This agreement guarantees the National Gallery's commitment to equity promising wall space to members of every race, ethnicity, class, sexuality, gender and ability, not just a click of white men. This agreement will help build trust between our museums and our communities. Today we redress the unequal power imbalances between groups. Those whose voices have been oppressed and excluded will be heard loud and clear. In the new system, discrimination is holding humanity back from realising our full potential. We are all a part of history today, and our job now is to continue to fight for diversity, equity and inclusion. Her audience abandoned their applause to investigate a for argo of boos and cheers. Coming from the gallery entrance, where academics were holding open the doors, Children scurried up their lookout posts onto the empty granite plinths of toppled statues Havelock, Napier and Cook. The cacophony began to crescendo from the gloomy Foy. Museum guards emerged, holding works of art portraits of Royals and aristocrats, merchant bankers and industrialists, philosophers, economists and politicians, slave owners and kneeling slaves. Landscapes of men in pith helmets beneath exotic skies. Hippo Domeier, the Sabine Women, the daughters of loose, IPAss, objectified and sexualised. Women, nudes and mothers. Biblical scenes, Christ Cleansing the leper ST Paul, Healing the Cripple, Alestra Olympia and her maid, Marquesa, Maria Grimaldi and her dwarf. The guards came down the steps and unburden themselves before a pit of basilisk eyes. Frames were stacked, slip shot like dilapidated chimneys, fearing the crowd could turn against them. Some sense that the high profile pieces with blankets others threw down artworks from the balustrades in a show of solidarity with the people, but it was no use. The snake pit writhed with indignation. The curator ordered that replacement artwork be unloaded from the Lorries and brought inside at once to placate the crowd and stave off violence. New art began to trickle into the museum up the left steps. As old art poured out to the right, the antidote started to take effect. The people rejoiced at the sight of art created by them. For them, the steps became conveyor belts of flesh and canvas. Out with the old in with, the new guards marched up and down in single file, crisscrossing the black and white mosaic floor of the Portico Terrace like omnipotent chess pieces. Below. Old works of art had begun to collide, and the pile resembled a dumping ground. Cubist newspapers, shattered vases, wilted sunflowers, dead fish and oysters. They're warm. Juices seeped into German and cloth of gold. Officials in high visibility jackets circled as their Jerry can spat. Petrol fuel trickle down carved wood frames in braided channels, soaked into ornate stucco ceilings and dripped arabesques onto the slabs. Trude boys, eager to help make history, offered up lighters to an official patting his pockets. It would be a story to tell their grandchildren. A sweaty thumb struggled with the Flint Flint Flint and without so much as smouldering. The inferno was born a chiaroscuro of broken bird cages, incandescent millstone collars and Perry wigs, taxidermy and still lifes. Lute strings snapped in the heat and sprawled like the intestines of moribund soldiers. Epilepsy shrivelled up like dead spiders. Parents placed bygone gift shop souvenirs, prints and postcards of skulls and ballet dancers in their Children's palms and encourage them towards the pyre. Broken stained glass windows created backdraft. The fire ripped through corridors and wind pipes. Clumps of flaming stucco rained inside. Faces began to atrophy. The conveyor belts churned and the smokestacks fumed. Tins of lighter fluid squeezed inside clenched fists, spread the fire from the Babylonian marriage market to the slave markets. 18 57 18 66 18, 71 18, 84. Emancipated body's curled up and withered over cabriole legs and clock innards swigging from cans of tepid cider and beer. Stein's drunkards made toasts as inquisitive dogs sniffed around for leftover scraps of game. Guards wipe their brows sticky with sweat and soot. onto their sleeves as they dragged out a procession of long dead white men. Dega, the castle, go again, their friends, followers, relations and patrons shackled to them by the chains of collective guilt. The crowd surrounded them with caustic glares and sugary smirks. Sparks flew as bodies of work fell upon splintered frames and broken marble. Guards have begun consigning some of the new artwork to the fire. They entered the museum at one staircase as before, but came back out moments later. Down the other, a crazy man ran up to the blaze and tried to pull works from it. Fools, fools! People gasped or laughed as he burned his hands, prising to target Asian women from the clasp of cloven tongues. Giant silhouettes dragged him away, thrashing his limbs to break free. He tumbled down. Anonymous boots, dealt in kicks misogynist, paedophile, fascist. It was almost midnight. Some were invited by the flames to stoke the fire and taunt the burning. Others patrolled with smouldering shards. Lest anything survive, the fire clapped and crackled to the initiated. Its rhythm was clear. The sober, however disturbed by such unpredictable time signatures, fell back to allow the intoxicated their death ram the wind fashioned address from the smoke and joined the dance. It's black ruffles billowed capriciously into the night sky. Italian woodlands crashed into the Thames, and the gods watched it all. Hey ho, hey ho! The Western canon has got to go. The moon, jaundiced and shaped like a nail clipping, disappeared as the smoke and the night consolidated their power into a perfect black. Drunks propped themselves against fountains and nurse their foreheads with bottles whilst their shadows continued to dance. Weary Children slept beneath the jaws of lions, too tired to mind the drums and whistles in the embers. Half burned museum placards lay scattered like broken tombstones. Portrait of what's his name attributed to so and so eviscerated Women in the service of his art known anti Semite had financial interests in colonial ventures. The bells of ST Martin in the fields welcomed midnight from its glowing bell tower. A hooded figure appeared, glimpse the square and disappeared once more, and the burning continued until there was nothing left
Tags
Aggressive, Angry, Articulate, Commanding, British (General)